[BSD-RP] Soul Society: Southeast Seireitei

[BSD]

Fierce, stubborn and determined the man remains in control, and then another joins their little "soirée". He appeared as an object or substance more than a man upon his appearance, as if conjured from some dark depths and forced to manifest into their world. He watches as the man rises, and approaches the woman. Faced with his back he can see nothing, and from his stance and the man's manner of speaking, he could hear nothing. He strains his ears, hoping to grab any peace of information, something he could perhaps use to manipulate those around him.
His efforts remain in vain.
The man, finished with his words steps away from the woman, and glances back at the dangling man. The prisoner catches a glimpse of the man's marred face, and his heart stiffens in his chest for a moment. As the man fades away like vapor, the image of his visage lingers behind within his mind. He misses the audible sigh, and the scraping of the chair as it is moved.
"That's a shame. That was your chance to tell me nicely."
It isn't until she speaks, that he is returned to his present predicament, and re-anchored to reality. A single motion from her, signals for one of the individuals lost in the shadows, to push a rolling cart. In the silence, the turning of squeaky wheels fill the soundless void of his prison. Again, her back is turned to him, as she delves into her treasure trove of who knows what insidious devices. He remains blind to her movements, but the rummaging, that is to clear for him. He hear the sound of metal clanging against metal, soon followed by items striking another metal object, each one clearly varying in size and weight. The man called to assist nods his head, the prisoner uncertain if this was out of understanding or approval of what he had seen. His task completed for now, he retreats into the cover of darkness, obscured by shadows once more — only to return, hugging more unknown objects close to his chest.
CRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAKKKK
They crash into the ground with a loud and audible crack. The sound echoes loudly against these prison walls, taking its time to fade into silence. He takes a deep breath, and steels his heart, eyes fixed on the man's every move. They dart to his arms, seeing that he still carries something, an object settled onto the adjacent chair. What is it? Only when he turns to nod towards the woman, does he realize that in his fixation with this man's movements and actions, he had taken his focus off the actions and movements of Lady Blue Hair. The two torturers lock eyes, and each secure the strange wooden...posts? before approaching him, each one claiming a side.
"I wonder if this will make much of a difference with him hanging like that..."
If what will make a difference? He can't help but to wonder. He keeps his question locked inside, not knowing that an answer was unneeded. He feels their hands grab hold of his legs, and he strains his head to stare down at them. He grits his teeth and struggles futilely, his body absent of strength from being deprived proper nourishment and dangling in the air as long as he had. He is easy prey. He remains tight lipped as ever, but the strain on his body is evident from the expression on his face. Gravity becomes allied with his tormentors, the weight of whatever object they have secured to him, dragging his body as if to stretch him out. Arms unable to move shake as they struggle to support his weakened body, muscles and tendons crying out painfully within him.
His breathing, becomes heavy...audible, his focus now on not being torn in half. Like the man, and like this new discomfort, they serve as adequate distractions, deterring his focus from the woman before him. When she grabs hold of his leg and lifts it, he wishes to resist, but instead attempts to take this time to get some relief for one of his legs from the weight.
GHAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!
His silence is broken, the man screams sounding more beast than man, caught off guard as the sharp object pierces the sensitive flesh between flesh and toenail. The pinky toe was the first, followed by the one after that, then the one after. Each toe targeted, his writhing and screaming ceaseless. Sweat pours from him almost like rain, saliva dripping from his mouth as he pants.
"Gah!
He feels the shift in weight, someone from behind, as the woman steps back. He tells himself to remain strong, fingers once coiled tightly into fists now slightly unfurled, the man hardly able to conjure the strength to keep them clenched. His vision, already somewhat blurred from the pain, becomes even more impaired as sweat gets into his eye. He sees a bundle of blue approach him. He feels her smaller hand taking hold of his left hand.
"G-get...the f-fuck...awa-"
He begins, voice weak, losing the angst and vigor it once held in his earlier voiced defiance. Her grip was, impressive. The force in which she held added more and more strain and pressure on his bone. He clenches his teeth, wanting to struggle, body involuntarily shuddering, torn between wanting to resist and be still from defiance and not wishing to aggravate these needle like objects in his toes any further, and wanting to fight and pull away. She captures his pinky finger, was she going to stop breaking his fingers now?
"Now we're going to play a game. For every lie you tell, our mutual friend here is going to twist each of those knobs down let's say..half an inch. We're going to assume everything out of your mouth is a lie."
He glances her from the corners of his eyes, breathing sharply through his nose and clenched teeth.
"But that's not fair. So I'll be here, giving you a close shave. I win when you tell the truth about who you're working for and what you're planning and who all is involved. Oh..but only after you beg me to cut the finger off first. Let's play!"
His pinky shook within her grasp, his eyes locked on hers. Lips dry and chapped, he felt his breathing becoming more labored. Time appeared to stall, that moment captured and locked in place — unmoving, eternal. Then, the clock resumes, her grip on his trembling little finger tightens, and her little game
BEGINS
"FUUUUUUCCCKKKKK!!! FUCK! GO TO HELL! FUCKING GO TO HELL!!"
He screams and writhes like a mad man, feeling flesh being stripped and shredded from his finger, the nobs at his feet concurrently being tightened. His eyes go white, saliva and spit flying from his mouth as he continues to scream and shout, switching between a heavy string of expletives and the incoherent shouting and animalistic cries torn from his throat.
He had been tortured before, and been dealt a great amount of pain, but now...now his body, spirit and will would truly be tested. Now, he is truly faced and confronted with PAIN.
Which would break first, his spirit or his body? Would he choose death as both a reprieve and assurance of his silence, or would he persevere while being trapped in the bowels of hell? When faced with death one learns just what type of person they truly are.
What manner of man was he?

 

[BSD]

The sound of the man's cries of agony and cursing fell on deaf ears, both Kazumi and the man aiding her moving along with their tasks without any type of reaction to him at all. When she had finished with the finger she was working on, the raw skin of the two flayed digits stared back at her. She pulled away from him, a small grin on her face as she looked to the man and feigned wiping sweat from her brow.
"Go get it."
The man straightened, looking to her for a brief moment before retreating back to the corner. As he did this Kazumi looked back up at the man, whistling lightly as she moved around the prisoner, the tool she used to flay him pressed against his skin lightly from his chest to his back. The flesh only cut slightly, causing him most likely no more pain than a mere papercut. Taking the tool from him she looked down at where the metal rods stuck out of the wooden "boots", the jagged edges piercing his skin as the force also had begun to shatter his joints. Deciding to continue to put strain on the man, the pain visible in his eyes when she had put weight upon the wood, she put a hand on his shoulder and lifted herself up. She stood upon the blocks that bound his feet, and though a small woman there was no doubt in her mind that an added weight of just over a hundred pounds would be unbearable.
This would strain on his shoulders, the joints straining as the tendons were pulled so tightly they could no longer withstand the strain and began to tear. She kept this position long enough the flay one more finger as she awaited the man to arrive from his dark little corner, the object in his hand easily recognized: a mini blow torch. With him in sight and her work on his digit complete she gave him relief in a way, stepping off of the blocks and giving his body freedom from the strain of bearing her weight along with his. Moving her body to stand before him, partially blocking his view of the approaching man she cocked her head slightly as she eyed him.
"I believe our guest is suffering. Give him some aid with heat therapy."

Continuing her tuneless whistling, she gripped his weak left hand once more and pressing the tool against his middle finger began to slowly move her tool upwards once again, the thick upper layers of his flesh peeling away into thin strips cast aside carelessly as each movement ended.
"Who, I wonder....where and when..."
She began to sing lightly, the words matching her motions as she continued along with her task. At his feet the man looked to her for any sign of stopping and when he was given none proceeded with his task. Taking the blowtorch, the sound of the fire starting with a fierce whooshing sound after a few small initial 'clicks'. Kazumi wondered if the man would be able to see what was happening, though didn't want to take her focus away from what she was doing. The man moved the harsh flames slowly across the row of metal rods that protruded from the wooden blocks. Reaching down to his flesh, already shredded from the jagged edges of the metal, bones already breaking and shattering beneath, the metal began to turn red. Each rod in turn slowly began to take on an orange glow, heated by the fire and pressing into his feet.
"You won't die, and I won't let you go into shock. What do you have left?"
She asked this of him softly, voice almost sweet as she gave him those words to consider. She knew well enough the limits of the body and what he would be able to handle. She knew how to keep him alert and aware, feeling every moment of pain they inflicted upon him. He only had one escape, and they were both very aware of the cost of his relief.

 

[BSD]

Blood drips and spills from flayed flesh, and sweat pours from his body like blood. Voice hoarse, and throat raw from screaming his vision becomes hazed and blurred from both pain and fatigue. His focus, once fixed on the woman now shifts to himself, mind warring between the pain he feels, the relief he so desires, and the cause for which he fights.
"Go get it."
He screams, groans and writhes out in agony — acts he himself becomes consciously ignorant too. His eyes begin to haze over, the sounds around him grow faint and distant as the world around him begins to change. Darkness is quickly replaced with a canvas of vibrant colors, the cold replaced with warmth, pain with love and comfort. He blinks several times before finally gazing around at the many familiar faces surrounding him. The man now finds himself back in the Rukongai.
He gazes down at his hands, unbound and unmarred save the callouses from Centuries of laboring about in fields. Fingers curl shut, he squeezes his fist as a small tear trickles from his eye. He was home, he was free — unburdened by the responsibilities entrusted to him, reunited with those he cared most for, and free from those demons and dogs of the Seireitei. This was what it was all about, this was what all his suffering had been for. For this moment, for these people...for this future. The Shinigami wouldn't understand, how could they? Battle and privilege had consumed them, even those that once called the Rukongai their home, quickly forget and abandon their past and those they left behind.
He sighs
None of that mattered anymore, it was over...he was free. His physical body, still bound, still beaten, still wounded and bruised remains dangling loosely in the air, his responses to whatever painful stimuli growing weaker and faint. Chapped lips begin to move weakly as if speaking, yet no words or sound escape him. With one last sigh, teeth begin to close on his tongue, and the prisoner begins to bite. His conscious mind trapped in the Utopia conjured from his heart's desire, his body subconsciously acts to take him there. The task is by no means easy, and by no means quick, yet blood is drawn. The iron taste filling his mouth does not register to him, the pain does not snap him to reality, for what is pain at this point? Had he not endured torment after torment? Had he not been subjected to nearly all manner of torture there is?
In this moment as he hangs there, his expression softens. The fact, it would be enough to save any of his comrades. Should he succeed and die, his silence would be assured. Should he succeed and live, with no tongue to speak, with fingers being broken, flayed and crippled he would be a useless husk of flesh; no tongue to speak of any secrets, no workable hand for which to write them down. A trail of blood trickles from his bottom lip, though not yet severed the man's body slowly makes its progress.
He was going home.

 

[BSD]

A ghost appears. A silent wraith apparating from thin air, undetectable to all but one. Amidst the havoc of Kyomu’s anger-induced rampage, the crowd of Onmitsukidō gathers. Watching as their Captain goes on a tirade, in pursuit of their missing Third Seat. Their minds and senses are too occupied by the scene before them to notice the sudden addition to their number.

“Captain Mukuro. I have a message for you from the Captain Commander.”
A man, clad entirely in white, suddenly speaks out, his voice monotone and deep. It surrenders no emotion, reveals no other intent. Despite being surrounded by expert assassins, despite intruding into the barracks of the deadly Onmitsukidō, and despite standing before an angered Mukuro, the very same Mukuro who had tried to murder the Commander of which the messenger speaks. This messenger was elite, his posture, spiritual pressure, and simple presence refined and perfectly suited for the situation. A true drone, and one Kyomu would be all too familiar with. He is a messenger of the First Division, expressly removed from the duties of the Inner Court Trope, his task is not to deliver mere messages from Shinigami to Shinigami. No, he carries the voice of Shobatsu Murasaki himself.

Outstretching both his arms, the messenger offers a white envelope for Captain Mukuro’s taking. The purple wax emblazoned with the Chrysanthemums seal of the First Division. It is not the first time the Captain has received such an envelope. He would undoubtedly reflect upon his actions, as he thought about the message contained inside. This is the first time the Captain has recieved any word from the First Division since his attempted assassination of the Commander. Has he not performed his task, no, his punishment? Has he carried out his sentence incorrectly? Would this message demand an audience with the Commander, and if so, would that audience in truth be a death sentence, the letter secretly containing the order for Kyomu’s execution?

Quote:Captain Mukuro,
You are hereby ordered to rendezvous with examinee Nozamu Kyōraku in the Valley of Screams. There you will oversee the completion of his Captaincy Test. Serving as Proctor, you are to observe his ability then report on his combat prowess. The test shall begin upon the arrival of both participants. While the use of lethal force is permitted, you are forbidden from killing the examinee.

A relief, no doubt. Though the timing is inconvenient, the subject of the message remains standard. This is ultimately a good sign for the Captain, as this means that everything is to continue as per usual in regards to his role within the Seireitei. The routine of Kyomu’s duties has not been robbed from him, and so the Commander, as always, appears true to his judgement. The letter’s orders only serve to confirm that, regardless of how Captain Mukuro and the Second Division may be perceived by the Seireitei, as far as the Commander is concerned, Kyomu has paid in blood for the toll of his actions.

 

[BSD]

The Onmitsukidō shuffle about the entirety of the barracks, diligently looking for any hints or clues of former Third Seat Xiaolin’s whereabouts, if only to appease their Captain. His anger, like a flame scalds them from simple passing. His rage is a silent one, he does not yell, he does not shout, nor does he move to destroy his surroundings, treating them as surrogates for the object of his fury.
It is a silence that fills the Onmitsukidō with dread.
Kyomu, while storming his way towards the Nest of Maggots, clearly vexed and seething with all manner of anger slows his cadence, and then he comes to a stop. Amidst the ocean of black the man known as the Phantom, spots another apparition haunting the grounds of his barracks. The figure clad in white momentarily distracts the Captain from his rampage.
”Captain Mukuro. I have a message for you from the Captain Commander.”
The monotone voice of the white ghost, finally draws the attention of the Stealth Force. They respond to this unknown voice, and this presence that until now remained undetectable to them with fierce aggression, blades immediately drawn and pointed towards the direction of the enigmatic source. It takes a moment for everything to register with them, the form of the man, his uniform, and the words spoken. They glance from the messenger to their Captain, and in a sudden bout of understanding, withdraw their blades and step back. There was none that wanted to be known for being seen as attacking the carrier of his voice and will.
The tension amongst the Onmitsukidō and within the barracks of Second Squad, intensifies further.
Why was he here? Was it due to what their Captain had done? What he had said? What was written? Why now, of all times? Their chests and minds that were already heavy with the weight from their Captain’s vexation, now seemed to cave in from the sudden emergence of this courier clad in white.
They all remained silent, none daring to speak, no soul daring to move. They observe the uplifted arms of the messenger as he stands before their Captain, hands offering a single item, perhaps the object of their demise.
Kyomu approaches
Cold impassive eyes fall upon the open palms, landing on a single white enveloped, a single purple wax stamp sealing the envelope shut. He reaches out and carefully, retrieves the envelope before the watchful eyes of his subordinates.

The mark of the First Division impressed into the stamp, confirming the validity of whatever message lay inside. Beads of sweat trickle down intense brows of the Onmitsukidō, tightly clenched palms grow sweaty. The desire to swallow is suppressed, a few needing to remind themselves to breathe, having absentmindedly held their breaths from the mere sight of the still enclosed message.
Kyomu’s stoic mask remains indecipherable. He stares at that familiar Chrysanthemum and silently reflects. Neither his eyes, his face, his body nor his reiatsu do anything to betray even his most inconsequential of thoughts as he stands, locked in place. The phantom closes his eyes, locked under the anxious scrutiny of the surrounding Onmitsukidō, waiting desperately with bated breath. Finally,
He moves
Eyes peel open, as thumb slides beneath the envelope, breaking the seal of purple wax. The Stealth Force takes this moment to steal a breath, only to hold it once more. Kyomu reaches inside, retrieving a single piece of paper, neatly folded. He unfolds the paper, and begins to read, eyes scanning from left to right, top to bottom.

Quote:Captain Mukuro,
You are hereby ordered to rendezvous with examinee Nozamu Kyōraku in the Valley of Screams. There you will oversee the completion of his Captaincy Test. Serving as Proctor, you are to observe his ability then report on his combat prowess. The test shall begin upon the arrival of both participants. While the use of lethal force is permitted, you are forbidden from killing the examinee.

Upon finishing reading the contents of the message, the paper is crushed within the clenched fist of the young Captain. It is an act that startles his men. The act itself unexpected, and is interpreted as the worst of news to them. They perceive it as their fears come to life, and do their best to steel themselves for the news of their fates. Would they be granted a modicum of mercy, allowed to live as prisoners within the Nest of Maggots, the very prison once left under their charge? Or...were they unworthy of even that much leniency, and sentenced to execution?
Kyomu turns his focus to the Commanders present envoy.
”I acknowledge, I’ll depart for the Senkaimon imme-”
His words cut short as the very grounds of the barracks violently rock and shudder. The source of this quake was anything but natural. Kyomu’s form is instantly lost, only to be found now standing atop the barrack’s rooftops. His gaze is led towards the Central Seireitei, eyes fixed in a fierce glare.
’This reiatsu…’
The source of the seismic phenomenon was definitely the result of someone’s spiritual pressure, and if even he could feel it from here, he had little doubt others would not feel its force either. Others would wonder of its origins, but Kyomu would certainly not be mislead. How could he forget this signature….after all, he was the man’s proctor during his exam once upon a time.
He ponders upon the reason for such a violent exertion, and closes his mind to widen the scope of his spiritual vision, and by proxy...his understanding. He expands his consciousness — farther...wider, narrowing the focus of his search. Then, a second signature emerges, this one is also familiar to the Phantom, and coincidentally enough, also belongs to a man to whom he served as proctor. Both his examinees, one who failed, the other of which succeeded. Was this what one called fate, destiny or perhaps irony was the better term?
Kyomu perceives a clash between reiatsu, a battle? He waits, he watches, he observes through feeling alone. The confrontation is brief, the Lieutenant’s rampage quickly quelled by the junior Captain. There was no need for further observation, no need for his interference.
He retracts his senses and gazes down towards his subordinates, finding their eyes lifted up towards him half confused, half distressed. They too felt the might of that reiatsu, and with the arrival of the First Division’s messenger, the presentation of the envelope bearing a message, the reaction from their Captain in crushing the message, and then this sudden wave of pressure powerful enough to rock the foundations of their barracks, only one thought ran through their minds.
The Commander’s wrath was preparing to fall down upon them like a guillotine.
Kyomu stares at them, he notes the tension in their bodies, the subtle trembling of hands, the unrest in their spiritual pressures. Their fears are apparent to him, and he closes his eyes in both anger and disappointment. Had he not trained them enough, prepared them enough to suppress their emotions, abandon all doubt and fear? It became clear to him that there was much work to be done, their current display along with the fact that their third seat could vanish under their very noses without being noticed by a single soul….a heavy blow was dealt to the Captain’s pride.
”It seems some discipline is in order. Inform Lieutenant Yūgure that I’ll be in the Valley of Screams for a short while. I’ll deal with you lot when I return, while I’m away continue investigating the disappearance and possible whereabouts of Xioalin. Do not fail me again.”
The final word spoken concurrently marks the absence of his form and presence, leaving the Stealth Force to stare blankly at one another. A second passes, and finally, they realize that if Captain Mukuro was heading to that place it could only mean he was summoned to test another prospective Captain once again. It’s no wonder he responded the way he did, they knew better than anyone how much their Captain hates overseeing those exams.
With newfound relief, their future punishment is subconsciously pushed towards the back of their minds as they begin their search and investigation with newfound vigor. But wait —
Where WAS the Lieutenant anyways? In all the fuss, and with the recent moment of tension, those present were otherwise unaware, that their Vice Captain had long since left to handle a mission all on her own. What would their Captain, already furious with them say if they were to not only lose their third seat, but their Lieutenant as well?! Quickly they searched about, breaking off into teams to divide the workload, one team focusing on asking around, seeking to learn of young Yasu’s whereabouts. It wasn’t until after much searching and asking around did they finally get word of the message left behind by their bumbling Lieutenant.
“...If our Captain asks of my whereabouts, tell him I’m just taking care of things.”
They stared at one another, concern once more filling their eyes. Just what mischief was the Vice Captain getting into THIS TIME?!